Just a Cowboy and His Baby

by Carolyn Brown

  “You are heartless,” he said. “But remember, after tomorrow night we’ll have separate cabins and a whole week of babysitting. Then a day of rodeo and a two-day trip to Dodge City and you are going home.”

  “Then we’d better make hay while the sun is shining. You ever had bunk bed sex?” she asked.

  “No and I don’t intend to lose my bunk bed virginity tonight when there’s a big old king-sized bed right in there waiting on us,” he declared.

  Chapter 8

  Gemma felt the horse’s muscles ripple in protest when she eased into the saddle and shoved the heels of her boots down into the stirrups. He was ready for action, but then so was she. She needed to win because Trace was ahead of her. Not that it was a given fact that one of them would win that night. Coby Taylor was a cowboy with a drive that could easily whip both of them if they didn’t keep on their toes, and Billy Washington was moving up the ranks pretty danged fast. She measured the rein, inhaled deeply, let it all out slowly, and motioned for the gate to be opened.

  It was a toss-up as to whether the announcer or the crowd was more excited when Dancer put both hind feet toward the sky and tried to send her into a long greasy slide into the dirt or when he bowed up in the middle and tried a new tactic. It was when he was doing another kick that a fat wasp lit on the knuckles of her rein hand. The stinging pain began and Gemma had to fight off the instinct to let go and slap at it with her free hand. Eight seconds became eight years as she tried to live through the pain tattooing her knuckle. She managed to stay with Dancer all the way to the end, but before the buzzer went off she knew her rhythm had been off and her scores would be low.

  “And that, cowboys and cowgirls, was Gemma O’Donnell, our only woman contestant in today’s bronc riding event. Give it up for a spunky lady from Ringgold, Texas, who just held on for the full eight seconds,” he said.

  She removed her signature pink hat and bowed for the screaming crowd in spite of the stinging, swollen knuckle where the wasp had worked his evil magic. Damn the bug anyway. She hoped a wild bull stomped the hell out of it in the next round.

  “Judges’ scores are in for Gemma.”

  She held her breath and waited.

  “Seventy-eight points. Not bad for the lady beating Coby Taylor by one point! And she came in second behind Billy Washington who had seventy-nine points. Give it up for Gemma one more time,” the announcer said.

  She waved to the cheering crowd with her hat and disappeared back into the shadows. Granny O’Malley had taught her to make a paste of baking soda and water for bee stings and burns, and she had both in her trailer. She had started off in a jog when she heard the announcer telling everyone that Trace Coleman was up next. She stopped in her tracks and climbed up the side of a chute for a better view. No way was a damned wasp sting getting in the way of her watching Trace’s ride.

  ***

  Trace checked his spurs and climbed up the side of the chute. He slid into the saddle and shoved his boots down into the stirrups. He tested the rein and measured it to just the right length, lifted up on it, and nodded to open the gates. From the moment they swung open he was one with the bronc: legs right for the mark out, legs back and then forward like a dance until the buzzer sounded. Had it really been eight seconds? He felt as if he could have ridden the horse into total submission. He slid off the side with the help of the rescue rider to see a standing crowd whistling, screaming, and waving.

  “Now that was a ride!” The announcer’s voice was more excited than it had been all evening. “I can see why Trace Coleman from Goodnight, Texas, is the number one choice for this year’s bronc riding title. And the judges are already done with their tally sheets. That will be eighty-two points for Trace Coleman in the best ride of the night. Give it up again for Trace Coleman, who walks away from the rodeo tonight with an even closer shot at the finals in December.”

  He waved to the crowd and then headed to the chutes to claim his saddle. He’d barely made it out of the arena when he saw Gemma running, spurs jingling toward her trailer. He took off after her in a long-legged lope and found her standing in front of the small kitchen sink in a hot travel trailer with tears streaming down her face.

  “Did you do that on purpose?” he asked gruffly. “Dammit, Gemma, tell me you didn’t let me win.”

  “Hell, no! I gave it my best.”

  “Then what is the matter with you? You get mad, cuss, and kick, but I’ve never seen you cry because you lost,” he said.

  She held up her hand covered in a white paste. “It hurts.”

  He grabbed it and held it steady. “Is it broken? I’ll call the rodeo doctor and we’ll go right to the hospital. Shit, Gemma, I didn’t know you’d gotten hurt. I thought you were having trouble out there. You weren’t as smooth as usual, but I didn’t know you’d broken your arm.”

  “Wasp stung my rein hand while I was riding,” she said.

  He dropped her hand and wrapped her up in his arms. “How in the hell did you stay on the horse for the full eight seconds?”

  “I’m meaner than the wasp.” She hiccupped.

  Trace chuckled. “Is he dead?”

  “I hope so.”

  “What’s on your hand? Baking soda?”

  She nodded. “Granny uses it.”

  “So does Uncle Teamer. It’ll take the sting out and tomorrow you won’t even know you got bit.”

  She raised her head and looked at him. “You had a good ride. Congratulations.”

  He lowered his lips to hers and kissed her gently. “Considering that you came in pretty damn close with a wasp biting the shit out of your hand, I’d say you had a better one.” He scooped her up into his arms and carried her to the bed where he sat down with her in his lap. He removed her vest and tossed it on the pillows.

  Being there with Trace felt right, and that terrified her worse than a wasp sting ever could.

  ***

  They stayed until the end of the rodeo and Gemma didn’t even argue with Trace about who was driving back to the dude ranch. She had barely gotten inside the cabin when the front door opened and Hill pushed inside with ten girls behind him. Ten sets of eyes scanned the big room, some stopping at the bunk beds, some going to the kitchen area, and one looking right at her.

  “Hello, ladies. I’m Gemma O’Donnell. I’m your counselor for this week, and since there is one of me and ten of you, you will find name tags on your pillows.”

  Hill tipped his hat and disappeared out the door.

  “House rule number one is that you put them on first thing in the morning and pin them to the side of your bed at night. That’s for me as much as it is for your roommates because I have trouble remembering names. House rule number two is if you have a problem, you bring it to me and we’ll do our best to solve it. Now I know you are probably tired so first thing is showers, second is bedtime snacks, and third is sleep. Tomorrow we’ll get up at seven. Breakfast is at seven thirty, and the only thing you have to do before we go to the dining cabin is make your bed and put on your name tag. If you want to primp or need extra time in the morning, it’s up to you to get up earlier than that. Any questions?”

  The smallest girl raised her hand. “How did you stay on that horse for that long?”

  “It wasn’t easy tonight. A wasp decided to ride with me and stung my knuckle the whole time I was riding.” Gemma held up her hand with the red mark still visible on her middle knuckle.

  “Ouch! I bet that hurt. I would’ve got off that horse and cried,” the girl said.

  “Sometimes you got to work through the pain and get on with it,” Gemma said.

  “Who gets first in the bathroom?” she asked.

  “Lower bunks get first showers tonight. Upper ones tomorrow night. That sound fair?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Then find your bunks and your footloc
kers and get unpacked. Afterwards go take a shower and wash the rodeo dust out of your hair,” Gemma said.

  Finding their name tags created a flurry and soon the showers were going full blast. The five waiting their turn sat on their beds and watched Gemma as she arranged chocolate chip cookies on a platter, set out ten glasses for milk and/or apple juice, and started making bags of popcorn in the microwave.

  When the first five came from the shower with white fluffy towels turban-style around their heads and dressed in a variety of nightshirts or pajamas, the second bunch bailed off the top bunks and headed for the bathroom.

  “I like popcorn,” the youngest said.

  “So do I. My momma makes caramel corn,” Gemma said.

  “Is caramel corn kind of like Cracker Jacks?” she said.

  “Yes, it is, and you are Carly, right?” Gemma remembered putting that name on the first bunk.

  The girl nodded.

  “Well, Carly, why don’t you five come on over here and get started? We’re going to be pretty informal at this dude ranch so we can get to know each other while the others are getting finished.”

  The girls paraded to the table and sat down.

  “Can we sing like they did at the camp in the movies?” Carly asked.

  Gemma smiled. “Well, that’s a possibility. Why don’t you all be thinking of your favorite song?”

  In a few minutes ten girls were around the table and Gemma poured out sacks of popcorn into a big plastic bowl. She set it in the middle of the table and said, “Okay, starting with Carly, everyone is going to introduce themselves. Tell all of us your name, your age, where you are from, and what kind of music you like while we are snacking.”

  “I’m Carly and I’m from Dallas. And I’m ten years old and I like Maroon 5.”

  “Deanna from Chicago. I’m eleven and I like gospel music.”

  “Fiona from Albuquerque. I’m eleven and I like rap.”

  “Kelsey from Los Angeles. I’m eleven and I like alternative rock.”

  Gemma filled a small bowl with popcorn and tried her best to remember a bit about each girl. Carly could be clingy. Fiona was defensive. Kelsey was shy.

  “April from Washington, D.C. I’m ten and I like country music.”

  “Beth and I’m ten and I like Stevie Nicks.”

  “Chantelle from Omaha. I’m ten and I love rap.”

  “Jessie from Nashville and I’m country. I’m eleven but I’ll be twelve in a month and I’m going to be a country music star someday.”

  “Angie from New Orleans and I like jazz. Oh, and I’m eleven too.”

  “Katy from Atlanta and I like jazz and I’m eleven.”

  “Now can we sing?” Carly persisted.

  “Do you sing?” Fiona asked Gemma.

  Their accents were all as different as their looks. Carly had red curly hair like Annie from the play. Deanna and Fiona were blondes. Kelsey and Katy had light brown hair, and Angie and Jessie had jet-black hair and brown eyes. Chantelle and Beth were brunettes. Angie’s hair was what Gemma’s granny referred to as dishwater blonde and was cut in a short straight page boy at chin level.

  “Yes, I do, and I have a Dobro in my room if you want me to play it while you sing,” Gemma said.

  “Country?” Jessie asked with a new gleam in her eyes.

  “That’s what I sing. That and folk music, but you all like different things so let’s sing silly old songs. That sound all right?” Gemma asked.

  All ten girls smiled and nodded. “Starting tomorrow night we will have an hour in the evening for crafts. I’ve got a great idea for you girls to work on and we can start making them tomorrow evening,” Gemma said. “Finish your snacks and crawl up in your beds and we’ll sing just before lights out time. Tonight you get an extra hour because of the rodeo, but the rest of the week it goes dark at ten thirty.”

  That night Jessie and April put a country spin on “Apples and Bananas.”

  Fiona and Chantelle worked in some rap on “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”

  Gemma turned out the lights and slipped out the front door. The ice had been broken and they were whispering and giggling when she left the room. That alone was covering a lot of ground with ten young girls who were so very different. Thank goodness she’d been a Girl Scout and knew a bunch of silly campfire songs or she’d have been out in the cold about what songs to sing with them.

  “So how did it go?” Trace asked from the deep shadows beside the porch.

  She turned quickly. “Where did you come from?”

  “Been waitin’ right here for you. So?”

  “It went well. They’re whispering and not fighting.”

  “I heard you singing and laughing. My boys are still circling each other like banty roosters or maybe seasoned tomcats.” Trace chuckled.

  “Make them sing,” Gemma said. “It’s common ground, cowboy. We’re going to start on a craft project tomorrow night and that will get them to talking to each other even more,” Gemma said.

  “How’s the hand?” He reached across the distance and brought it to his lips.

  Gemma gasped. “It’s fine. I’d forgotten all about it.”

  He picked her up and with her feet dangling off the ground, his lips met hers in a clash of passion.

  Crickets sang.

  Frogs chirped.

  Cows bawled.

  But Gemma didn’t hear anything but a whoosh in her ears like when she blocked everything out before a ride.

  “I already miss you,” he said.

  “We are on the same dude ranch. We’ll see each other every day,” she said.

  “It’s not the same as the past four nights. Good night, darlin’.”

  He brushed another quick kiss across her lips and strolled back to his cabin. She watched him go. The cowboy strut, the way his jeans fit, the way the moonlight lit up his dark hair, and the set of his head all sent little electric shocks of want through her body.

  She sighed and went back inside the cabin.

  Chapter 9

  Gemma’s cell phone alarm went off at exactly six thirty the next morning. She rolled over and whined when she realized she was hugged up to a pillow instead of Trace. She threw her legs over the side, then put her elbows on her knees and her face in her palms. She didn’t want to be awake. She didn’t want to be responsible for ten girls. She wanted to be in Ringgold visiting all her friends, helping out in her beauty shop, or else she wanted to be tangled up in the sheets with Trace after a hot bout of sex. Neither one was going to happen.

  “I don’t like you!” A high-pitched Southern voice cut the silence from the front room of the cabin.

  “Well, I hate you. You are nothing but a baby and you’ll never make it a whole week without your mommy.” Deanna’s Chicago accent came through strong.

  Gemma wasted no time getting from her quarters to the other room before the hair pulling began. When she opened the door, Carly and Deanna were squared off in the middle of the floor. Deanna was the biggest, but Carly looked like a scrapper who could hold her own in any catfight.

  Gemma got between them and said, “Okay, ladies. What’s the problem this early in the morning?”

  Deanna pointed. “She woke up early and started singing stupid songs and woke us all up with her dumb voice. She couldn’t sing if her life depended on it.”

  Carly piped up before Deanna could say another word. “Well, I’m not a baby and she called me a baby and she’s the one who was whimpering after we went to bed last night. I hate her.”

  “I did not whimper and I hate you too!”

  Gemma crossed her arms. “Okay, settle down, both of you. Any of the rest of you don’t like some member of the group?”

  No one said a word. “Are you sure? Speak up right now because this is your la
st chance. Either tell me now or else you can’t say a word later on.”

  Fiona raised one hand and pointed at Jessie with the other one. “I don’t like her.”

  “What’d I do?” Jessie asked.

  “You snore.”

  “I do not!” Jessie declared.

  “Yes you do, and it sounds like a dying frog.”

  “How would you know what a frog sounds like? And I do not snore.”

  Gemma held up her hand. “Enough. So Jessie and Fiona don’t like each other either. Anyone else?”

  Kelsey raised her hand and pointed at April. “She thinks she’s all hoity-toity and better than the rest of us. She was humming after we went to sleep and I asked her to hush and she said that she was the best singer here and you like her better so you wouldn’t make her stop.”

  “Anyone else?” Gemma asked.

  No one raised their hand.

  “Okay, this helps me a lot. I’m assigning partners this morning so now I know what to do. Y’all ever watch any cop shows on television?”

  All ten heads nodded.

  “Then you understand partners, right? That means you’ve got your partner’s back at all times. If a bobcat or a coyote comes down from the mountains and is about to eat your partner, you fight that critter and don’t even think of leaving her there to get hurt. If she falls in a gopher hole and sprains her ankle, you don’t laugh at her, but you become her crutch to get back to the cabin. Understand? It means that you will stick to your partner like glue this whole week and if I catch you more than five feet away from your partner then there will be a reckoning.”

  “What about going to the bathroom?” Carly asked.

  “You stand by the door until your partner comes out.”

  “What’s a reckoning?” Deanna asked.

  “It’s a decision that I make if it happens, and believe me, you don’t want a reckoning,” Gemma said.

  More nods.

  “Okay, partners for this whole week are Angie and Katy and Beth and Chantelle.”